


Real Wolves At Your Door

by LookingForDroids



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angsty Feelings, Blood Drinking, Danger Kink, F/F, POV Second Person, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Vampire Hunters, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 21:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11021853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LookingForDroids/pseuds/LookingForDroids
Summary: It's a stupid, dangerous idea, and it's a chance to make things right.Prompt:A vampire hunter risks her life for one last night with her partner who was turned.





	Real Wolves At Your Door

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [FuckingFilthyFemslashFicFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/FuckingFilthyFemslashFicFest) collection. 



The old house is empty and quiet when you finally find it again, and it would be just like you remember if it weren't for the cracked windows and peeling paint, the beer bottles and candy wrappers on the lawn. A glance to either side – no one, of course there's no one here at this time of night – and then you clamber up the chain-link fence and drop down to the ground below. The streetlights are distant, but the moon is enough to light the way, and you're accustomed to moving through darkness. Dry grass crunches beneath your feet. You're not trying to be silent. You know better.

Even nights aren't so cold this time of year, late summer on the cusp of autumn. You don't why you're shivering. After all, haven't you faced a hundred of these things before?

No. that thought doesn't help. She isn't a _thing,_ not even the way she is now. And hell, you don't even know whether you'll find her waiting, or whether she got your message at all. Might be you wasted your time coming here, and you'll wait as the sky grows light, too stubborn to leave until full morning. You're not sure whether you're afraid of that or hoping it's true.

She is there, though – seated on a creaking swing with her head bowed, kicking her legs absently and looking for a moment just like she had when you used to sneak out to meet her as a kid, back before everything went to shit. But she isn't the same, and the awareness of that catches up to you like a slap across the face, first the shock and then the sting. Her hair is a tangled net masking a gaunt, pallid face, and her torn and dirtied jacket hangs loose on a too-thin frame. Her eyes catch the moonlight as she looks up, and gleam.

"Here to put an end to it, are you?" she says, sounding almost calm, but you can see the sharp indrawn breath and the way her tongue flicks out to taste the air, and you can see the effort it takes to tear her gaze away from your throat.

A chill runs up your arms and down your back, mostly fear but some exhilaration. Just like you would on any hunt, you find yourself taking stock of the tools you brought with you: silver knives and oakwood stakes, pistol at your belt, crucifix necklace hanging on a chain around your neck. Weapons and armor, their presence an old habit unbroken. You didn't come here to use them.

"No," you say.

"You should be." She slips off the swing and steps forward, then seems to catch herself, her hands clenching convulsively in the fabric of her jacket. There's something wrong with the way she moves, too fluid and then too abruptly still, and something worse in the way her eyes fix on you, hollow and dark with hunger. 

"You ought to kill me or get out of here," she says, and you know she isn't wrong. Even if she's fed, the newly turned are always ravenous, and you're not sure she has. You've seen no reports of savaged bodies, anyway, no telltale signs of a hastily hidden kill. Only her, running west along the river until you tracked her back here, back home. And now she's standing in front of you, looking just like you remember except for the dirt and the fact that she's a monster now, and she's almost trembling with all the pent-up violence you remember from every time the two of you had to put down a blood-mad fledgling together. But she hasn't attacked, not yet, and it turns out you're just stupid enough to believe that might mean something.

"Yeah," you say. "I know that, alright? But the thing is, I don't fucking want you dead."

"Bit too late for that, isn't it?" She grins, revealing a predator's teeth. "Only one thing you can do for me now, and that's assuming I let you."

"Bullshit," you say, because you don't know what else to say and because you're _angry_ – at her for refusing to run when the job turned bad, at yourself for failing. This is your fault, isn't it? If there's a price, you'd better be the one to goddamn pay it.

"If it was me," you say. "If I was the unlucky stiff and you were the one left alive... What would you want?"

She doesn't answer. She doesn't have to. Both of you know what her answer would be. 

No need to say what you're here for, either. Some things die when dragged into the light, and they're not always the ones you want to kill. You reach up slow – her eyes track your movements, and you know better than to look away – until your fingers find the clasp of your crucifix necklace and slip it free.

Throwing the thing away would be a dramatic gesture, but a stupid one. You don't do stupid, even if you came here on a suicidal whim. You shove the necklace into a pocket instead, still gripping the chain tight. In easy reach but out of sight is enough. She tilts her head and steps toward you, and despite the dirty clothing and the shadows beneath her eyes, there's a second when she's almost unrecognizable in her menacing grace. 

"Put it back on," she says, threat or warning or plea.

"Not unless I have to," you say. "And I know I won't."

She makes a noise that's halfway between a sob and a snarl, and then she moves, as you will yourself to hold still. She's on you in an instant, her hands scrabbling at the back of your shirt as she buries her face in your hair. You think you feel claws against your skin, but even with the unearthly chill, the way her body fits against yours is too familiar. You can feel yourself getting wet. You hate yourself for that, a little bit.

"I could kill you," she says, and her teeth graze your neck. "You know that, right?" You do know it, just like you know the arch of her spine, the solid muscle or her shoulders beneath your fingertips, the press of her leg between your thighs. She's close enough for you to kill her, bullet to the brain and then a stake through the heart. You think about it, knowing you'd be fast enough. You think she'd probably let you, and that's half the reason why you can't.

"You won't," you say, like saying it plain enough could make it true. And that _is_ bullshit of the highest order, and you don't do stupid, but if she's got to be dead then maybe you wouldn't mind dying with her – for her, like you weren't able to do before.

She wouldn't thank you for that. She'd hate you for it, or more likely she'd hate herself, so you still her with a hand in her hair, not strong enough to really hold her. You can feel her trembling with the effort not to move.

"I could," she says, whispering against the skin of your throat, over your pulse point. "I'm hungry, Kay. I've been so hungry."

"I know," you say, and guide her mouth away from the jugular, to the hollow of your shoulder. "Do what you have to."

You feel her tense against you, holding back for the space of a breath, before she pulls you close and bites down hard. It hurts – a sharp, sudden pain, not worse than any of the wounds you've taken but no better – but the sound she makes is one of sweet relief, helpless, and it hits you in the pit of your stomach and right between your legs. You move without thinking, curling your fingers in her hair and wrapping your other arm around her waist as you grind down against the seam of your jeans, desperate in your own way for a little more of whatever life and warmth she has left to offer. It's not enough – too little friction, too little heat, and you don't care, because you need this like she needs blood. She drags you close, her mouth against your skin and her teeth cutting deep, and you let her drink until you feel lightheaded, her palm against your back supporting you. It hurts like hell, even with those raw, scattered moments of pleasure when you press down just right against her thigh, and it scares you how much you want it not to stop. You have the cross in your hand, the chain of it wrapped around your knuckles, digging into your skin. You can use it if you have to.

"Enough," you say, after too long and not long enough at all. "No more."

The newly turned are ravenous, but she pulls away, her mouth stained dark in the moonlight. You feel your own blood run down your skin in a cooling trickle, and she licks it clean before looking up at you with animal eyes.

"I don't want to kill you," she says in a ragged voice, like she's making herself believe it. "I don't want you to die."

"I could have told you that," you say, steadier than you feel. You kiss her, tasting your own blood on her tongue, breathing in her cool breath and shivering. She closes her eyes and skates a hand under your shirt, tracing your ribs, fumbling with the catch on your bra until it comes open. Your breath comes up short as her calloused thumb brushes over your nipple, and she draws back for a moment, listening to something that might be your heartbeat. There's something about her that's still so hungry.

"We're not enemies," you tell her, as if that might make any kind of difference.

She laughs once, sharply, and says, "Not yet. Might have to be."

You want to argue, but there's nothing you can say that won't be bullshit, and both of you deserve better than that.

"You know I'm gonna miss you, right?" she says, with your blood still staining the corner of her lips. "You know I – "

She twists away with a snarl, uncontrolled and _fast_ , and for a second you think she'll run, or maybe tear your throat out where you stand. Then her other hand is at the front of your jeans, undoing the button, pulling the zipper down, and you can't help but arch up into her touch. The night air is cool on your skin as she tugs your jeans and underwear down over your hips, leaving you feeling too exposed but not enough to tell her to stop. There's no one out here anyway, and you're not sure you'd care if there was. Not now, with her fingertips gripping your hips as she goes to her knees, as she presses her mouth to your inner thigh and does nothing but breathe in. You can feel your legs trembling, from weakness or desire. You know she could kill you now, and you're not sure what you're asking for when you whisper _please._

She tilts her head up, staring at you with wild eyes and parted lips, and mutters, "You got a death wish, Kay."

"Maybe I just trust you."

"Like I said," she says, with a harsh laugh that only makes that pressure coil tighter at the base of your spine. Her hand slides up your leg as she nips at your skin, not quite a kiss and not quite a bite but sharp with the threat of teeth. She slips a finger inside you, then another, pressing deep and curling up. You can't help the shaky sounds you make, or the way your hips jerk at her thumb against your clit, her mouth against your skin, heat and pleasure building slow. She isn't gentle, though you think she tries to be. Her hand between your legs is fast and urgent, almost too rough, but it's what you need. That and the pain – in your shoulder where she pierced your skin, and in your hand clenched around a piece of silver jewelry, a reminder that each of you could kill the other and neither of you will. You move with the rhythm she sets, your fingers in her tangled hair and your throat bared to the night, riding the keen edge of pleasure until rhythm deserts you. You grind down hard against her hand, whimpering and clenching around her fingers; your body arches as the feeling pulls taut and snaps, and you forget how to think in words.

It's a while before you remember. When you do, she's still there, holding your head in her lap, stroking your hair and looking at you with a kind of yearning that you don't think, for once, has anything to do with hunger. You feel faint and drained, wrung out, and you remember collapsing. You remember her catching you. 

"Sunrise soon," she says, and you know what she means by it.

"You don't have to leave," you say – automatic, stupid, dangerous words. You wouldn't take them back if you could.

"Not forever," she says, a promise you're not sure she means to keep. "I'll find you again, when – when I'm sure I won't hurt you."

"Other people, though," you say, when you can force yourself to speak. "That's fine? You can hurt them?"

Her hand stills in your hair as her eyes go bright and cold, and you think for a second that she means to say _yes._ Then she shudders and shakes her head, looking almost human again, saying nothing.

It's cruel, though you wish it didn't have to be. It's also true. You know it, and she knows it. Maybe she's been holding on better than most, maybe she's doing better now with your blood inside her, but she can't fight the odds forever. Newborn vampire on the loose, someone's going to die.

Unless, of course, there's a hunter around to stop that from happening. You think she knows that too, however much it frightens her.

You look up, smiling, and brush two fingers along the line of her jaw, just like you used to on easier nights than this.

"Stay," you say. "You're still you. We'll figure you the rest."

After a long moment, she nods, and helps you to your feet. You settle into the crook of her elbow, leaning against her, the shape of her body like a remembered song heard again. You'll figure it out – or you won't, and one or the other of you will do what a hunter needs to, but that's the future still, and you're not afraid.

You wait out the sunrise indoors, together.


End file.
